“Ha! More of his incomprehensible, meaningful and significant musical conundrums. Ooops, sorry!” Betrice covered her lips with an unrepentant hand. “I know he’s the most important composer in the last two centuries, Merelan, but could he not once contrive a simple tune that anyone – besides his own son – could sing?” She rose and walked to the wall cupboard, where she opened one door.
Merelan regarded Betrice without rancour. “He does rather complicated scores, doesn’t he?” Then she smiled mischievously. “He just likes to embellish.”
“Oh, is that what it’s called? Give me a simple tune that I can’t get out of my mind!” Betrice said. Having found what she wanted, she returned to Merelan. “But we both know I’m a musical idiot, for all the MasterHarper and I have been espoused now thirty turns. Here you are, my fine lad. Much more appetizing than blanket to chew on.” And she handed Robinton a sweet stick. “I believe you prefer peppermint.”
The tears were nearly dry, but the gift brought the winsome smile back and a clear “t’ank you’ from the recipient. He pushed himself straighter on Merelan’s lap, accepted the offering and leaned back against his mother’s comforting body as he sucked happily on the sweet.
“I’m not criticizing Petiron, Merelan,” Betrice said earnestly.
Merelan smiled gently. “You say nothing that isn’t the truth, but he’s much easier to deal with, generally speaking, when he’s composing.”
“Which seems to be often …”
Merelan laughed. “Petiron naturally complicates things. It’s a knack he has,” she said indulgently.
“Humph! He’s a very lucky man to have such an understanding mate,” Betrice said emphatically, “as well as one who can sing what he writes as easily as she breathes.”
“Ssssh.” Merelan put a finger to her lips. “Sometimes I have to work very hard to keep up with him.” “Never!” Betrice pretended disbelief, then grinned broadly at the MasterSinger.
“It’s true, nevertheless, but,” and Merelan’s expression softened with pride, “it’s wonderful to have such challenging music to sing.”
Betrice pointed to Robie, happily sticky-ing up fingers, face and blanket. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Well, first off, I shall see that Master Washell never has need of Petiron’s studio again,” Merelan replied, her usually serene expression resolute, “and I shan’t leave the pair of them together unless I’m positive Robie’s fast asleep.”
“That sort of limits you, doesn’t it?” Betrice asked with a snort.
Merelan shrugged. “In a Turn or so, Robie will be in with the other Hall children during the day. It’s a small enough sacrifice to make for him. Isn’t it, love?”
“It’s all too true,” Betrice said with a wistful sigh. “They’re young such a short time – even if it feels like an age while they’re growing up and away from you.” She sighed again.
Merelan felt something sticky on her arm and, looking down at her son, saw that the sweet had fallen from his hand.
“Will you look at this?” she said softly, peering with a loving
smile at the thick lashes closed on his cheek.
“Here, put him on the day-bed.”
“I don’t mind holding him,” Merelan protested. “You’ve work to do.”
“Nothing I can’t do while minding a sleeping child. Go on off and do something by yourself for a change. If you aren’t tending him -‘ she pointed to Robinton “- you’re minding him.” Her finger
jerked in the direction of Merelan’s quarters.
“If you don’t mind …”
“Not at all. Unless you want to help with my mending?” Betrice chuckled over the alacrity with which Merelan rose.
When Robie was well into his third Turn, he picked up a small pipe which had been left on the table. It wasn’t his father’s, because Robie knew his father did not actually play a pipe or a flute. And since this wasn’t his father’s belonging, he could touch it – and experiment with it. He blew in it, masking the holes with his fingers as he had seen others do. When the tones that came out were not similar to the ones so effortlessly made by other players, Robie tried different ways until he could make the proper sounds .. as quietly as he could.